


While We the Brave

by kyrilu



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied Relationships, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Slash, Translation Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-04 20:34:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond and Felix see each other for the first time in years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i thought of thee

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [[授权翻译]While We the Brave/勇敢之时](https://archiveofourown.org/works/785405) by [bangbingchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bangbingchan/pseuds/bangbingchan)



> Quick disclaimer: I have not read any of the Bond novels, or watched any of the pre-Craig movies. The Felix I'm writing is based on Jeffrey Wright's portrayal in Casino Royale and Quantum of Solace. I've mixed in some book details about Felix, which I got off of several wikis, but that's it.
> 
> Past Bond/Vesper is referenced.

 “A drink for you, mister.”

Bond looks up from his scotch, and there’s a martini in the bartender’s hand. “Not mine,” he says, and then his gaze catches the lemon peel hanging off of it. He studies the drink carefully, and his eyes can’t stop hovering at the colour and shape of it, wondering.

“Him over there,” the bartender says.

He follows the bartender’s hand. He sees the back of a well-dressed man in a sharp grey suit, and wants to laugh himself sick from recognition.

“Felix,” Bond says.

“James,” the man says, turning. “Long time no see.”

Bond feels a smile pull at his mouth. “Indeed. Six years, actually. How is the CIA treating you? I heard you were promoted. Congratulations.”

“That was awhile back,” Felix says with a nod. “I’ve risen a bit further up, but that’s, ah. Classified.” He smirks. “Still a double-O?”

Bond shrugs, returns the smirk. “As always.” He pauses, and experimentally takes a sip of the martini. “It’s good,” he says, half-to-himself.

Felix takes a seat next to Bond; he pries the cocktail from Bond’s hand, and then tastes it. After he swallows, he remarks, apparently half-joking, “The job does no favours to your age.”

“I’ve heard it all before,” Bond says, dry. “And yes, you remembered the drink right.”

“She was a helluva beautiful woman,” Felix says.

Bond has to stop himself from snapping backward. Recoiling. But it’s just Felix, he thinks. Encountering an old acquaintance. And yet the sharpness in his voice betrays him.

“Why are you in London?”

“Some of the higher-ups wanted me to hang around, check on things, take care of business. Get the CIA acquainted with the new M.” Felix takes another sip of the cocktail. “I have an appointment scheduled with him tomorrow.”

“And you thought you’d catch up?” Bond says.

Felix smiles. “Like you said, it’s been years.” He pauses. “So she’s dead.”

“I was there, yeah,” Bond says.

In truth: there was also a funeral. Bond didn’t go. Eve had, and then she’d returned, all dressed in black, to press the funeral pamphlet in Bond’s hand. _I see what was, and is, and will abide_ , he had read, and Eve said, _That was on her headstone, Bond._

Bond looks at the drink Felix is holding, and all he wants to do is get utterly, completely pissed. Preferably now. He signals the bartender, and orders more scotch, sinking into a momentary sullen silence as he downs about a quarter of it.

“I thought that tough old woman would live forever,” Felix says. “She seemed the type. I got a mother just like her.” He cracks a grin; Bond realises that he’s trying to lighten the atmosphere.

“She left me a goddamned bulldog in her will,” Bond says. “Not a real one, mind, but this figurine rubbish. Of all bloody things.”

Felix snorts, and then he shouts at the bartender for beer. Looks like he’s decided to get drunk alongside Bond, which he doesn’t really mind at all.

“What have you been doing besides climbing your way up the CIA ladder?” Bond says, abruptly switching the subject.

In response, Felix rolls up the sleeve of his right arm, then he taps his left leg. Bond can hear a metal rapping noise from the gesture, and his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Prosthetic limbs. He suddenly recalls the limp Felix had as he walked toward Bond, a slightly unsteady gait.

“Jesus,” he says.

“Isn’t it,” Felix says flatly. “Fucking shark. Now I’m suspended from any real missions for an unknown amount of time. I’m their messenger boy. It’s really not climbing my way up the ladder. More like falling off of it.”

Felix shakes his head, and says, “I heard you died, though.”

“Oh, that,” Bond says with a bark of laughter, forcing himself to look away from Felix’s right hand. “No, it was just a vacation, you could say.”

“Istanbul, killed in action, probable cause of death was friendly fire and/or drowning,” Felix says. It sounds like he’s reciting a file. “There was an obituary, too.”

“You were worried?”

“Was going to fly over until I got sent over Florida,” Felix says; it’s a confession, albeit one admitted over alcohol. “Pay my last respects or something like that. Then, well. Fucking shark.”

Bond finishes his scotch. “You’re too good for me,” he says. “I haven’t been checking up on you, you know.” He studies Felix through bleary eyes and says, “Why are you always here?”

“In London?”

“No.” Bond makes a vague hand motion, and eventually he finds the words to speak. “When I need you. I don’t think I do, but something’s always shot to hell, and somehow you’re here.”

Felix says, rolling his eyes, “You’re drunk. That was only once. I just told you about the CIA, and let you go on your merry way to go kill people for her.”

 _Her._ _She._ Isn’t that funny, they’re the only two people alive in the world who were _there_ , Casino Royale, gambling, Quantum, and they can’t bring themselves to say her name. Le Chiffre and Yusef Kabira and Dominic Greene are dead, and who the fuck knows what happened to the rest of that organisation. Then there were two other people; they died in Bond’s arms.

_We Men who in our morn of youth defied the elements, must vanish--_

“Right,” he says distractedly. “Right.”

They end up ordering more alcohol, and they drink in almost complete quiet. It’s starting to get dark outside, and Bond tries not to think of the hangover he’s going to get in the morning. But the scotch is good. His head is buzzing with energy, and he wraps himself in the sensation.

Sometime in the evening, Felix clamps a hand to Bond’s shoulder, and says, “Help me get out of here, James, I don’t think I can walk. Especially not with this damned thing.” He taps at his leg.

So Bond helps Felix hobble to his hotel, only a block away, his muscles straining as he steadies Felix, trying to steady his own drunk frame as well. The night air is cool and Bond can feel the alcohol slowly ebbing away; he just wants to collapse now, and sleep, and hopefully not get assaulted with a bitch of a hangover. Felix is muttering curses underneath his breath, _shit_ and _crap_ and, Bond thinks, _shark_ intermingled with that, and he chuckles out loud.

He hauls Felix into the lift, and they enter a mediocrely decorated hotel room. He dumps Felix unceremoniously on the bed, letting out a relieved breath as he does so.

“You’re terribly sloshed,” he says to Felix.

“You, too,” Felix retorts; the words are slurred. “Goddammit, just sit down already. You look like you’re half-dead. I don’t think you should try going back home now. Unless you have another death wish again, and you want your file to say _agent killed drunk driving_ or _agent killed crossing the street._ ”

Bond shrugs, and then he sinks into the bed beside Felix. He says, “I haven’t had that martini in ages. They don’t sell Kina Lillet anymore.”

“I know,” Felix says. “I’ve been making it for myself a couple times. I found a decent substitute.”

“Tell me about it in the morning.”

“I will,” Felix says, with a slow smile, and he’s out like a light, asleep. His eyes are closed; Bond thinks that he looks older in his sleep. As old as Bond is.

Bond smiles, reaches forward to touch the hair on Felix’s sweat-dampened forehead with the side of his hand, and he doesn’t stop to think about what any of this might mean.

Maybe they can visit M’s grave tomorrow.

 

~

 

_And if, as toward the silent tomb we go,_

_Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower,_

_We feel that we are greater than we know._

\--Valedictory Sonnet to the River Duddon: After-Thought, William Wordsworth.


	2. my partner and my guide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I return from my brief hiatus with a sudden, unexpected chapter of this! \o/
> 
> (This is just an excuse for angst. And face-touching. And agh, all the romanticized friendship, please.)

 “You sleep pretty sound for a goddamned spy,” Felix says; the sound of his voice touches the edges of Bond’s consciousness, and drags him out of slumber. “Get up, you moron.” An elbow prods lightly against Bond’s back.

“I’m up,” Bond says, pulling himself up, and then he groans, pain spiking through his forehead.

“You fucking alcoholic,” Felix says cheerfully, and he offers Bond a glass of water. “I gotta go to Legoland in an hour to see M. You have to go in today?”

He drinks quickly, the water moistening his tongue and throat and mouth. He narrows his eyes to the sharp sunlight streaming in through one of the hotel room windows. “Not today,” Bond says. “You want me to come with you?”

“I’m a big boy, James.” Felix rolls his eyes, but after a second, he shrugs and says, “You can do whatever you like.”

“I want to see her grave,” Bond says. “Do you.” A pregnant pause.

“Sure.” Easy as that. Felix takes the empty glass from Bond’s hand, puts it on the bedside table; he doesn’t look directly at Bond, but there’s something reassuring about his presence, something solid and certain.

“All right,” he says. He falls back against the bed, yesterday’s crumpled suit sticking to his skin, his forehead still pounding. “Go, then. I’ll see you at lunch, after your appointment. I’ll text you the restaurant's address.”

Felix stands. He’s already dressed, all signs of last night’s drunkenness gone from his body language. “Happy recovery,” Felix calls, before the door shuts.

Bond snorts, and goes back to sleep.

 

~

 

“Roses, James?”

Bond turns his gaze away from a menu, and finds Felix pointing to the bouquet on the table. “I asked the florist. He said that they represent mourning. Or something like that. I don’t know.”

“The red ones, yeah, I think. Never saw you as someone who gave out flowers.” Felix takes a seat across from Bond.

“It’s traditional,” Bond says wryly. “I thought it’d be weird if I just went empty-handed. If Tanner or one of her kids were there. And.”

\--respect. That’s what it was, even if M might laugh at him if she was still alive, saying that he didn’t owe her anything; if she were to miraculously appear and chastise him, he’d respond, _You gave me the dog, ma’am._

(You gave me England.)

“My mom taught me lilies,” Felix says. He’s studying Bond’s expression carefully. Bond merely stares back, neutral. “White lilies. But roses work just as well.”

“Yeah,” Bond says, letting out a low breath. “How did it go? What did you think of Mallory?”

Felix relaxes his gaze at the mention of Mallory, opening the menu on the table. “Competent. Capable. Old soldier type of guy, kinda like you.”

“He’s a good man,” Bond says. It’s a bit of a concession -- but everything feels almost back to normal, to be honest, and Mallory’s definitely got a good head on him. “You meet the new Q?”

“That snotty brat? Yes. I swear, he’s been poking through your file, or noticed that I’ve been -- ah, sniffing around MI6 sometimes to see how you’re doing -- because he looked at me funny. MI6 is just getting younger and younger, isn’t it?”

“Brave new world,” Bond echoes.

“Hear, hear,” Felix mutters, the corners of his eyes crinkling with an unidentifiable expression. “But the boy seems quite competent himself. M seems sure of that, anyway.”

Bond says, “He saved my life a few times.”

“So did I,” Felix says, grinning. “Like you were rhapsodising about last night. Now, hey, where’s the waiter?”

 

~

 

It’s nothing overly dramatic. Bond drops the roses down by the headstone, touching the indent of the letter _M_ with the tips of his fingers. Felix watches him, his hands shoved in his pockets. When Bond gets up, Felix says, “Ready?”

“I think,” Bond says. He starts walking away, but then he sees Felix still by the grave, putting a hand out. A brief salute. Bond smiles, just a little bit, and he says, “C’mon, then.”

They stride back to Felix’s rented car; by unspoken agreement, Felix takes the driver’s seat. Bond sits beside him, shotgun. The car smells like air freshener, heavy and fruity -- must’ve been the dealer who hung the thing -- and Bond breathes slowly, fighting off the sudden nausea that overcomes his senses. He shudders; he doesn’t know _why_ , but he feels so terribly, horribly sick.

“What the hell, James,” Felix says, quietly, catching sight of his eyes. “You’re--”

“Fine,” Bond says sharply. Irrationally, he finds himself thinking: _you’re going to be next, aren’t you?_ He thinks of a man he killed with oil in the desert, saying: Everything he touches withers and dies.

Bond runs a hand through his hair, and wills the nausea away. Felix can take care of himself. Bond -- Bond can watch out for him, too. And it’s not as if they’re on a mission together. There’s no threat. (Although there _always_ is.)

He reaches for Felix. One of his hands trace the rough stubble along the shape of Felix’s cheeks, and he doesn’t pull his gaze away from Felix’s. “You think I feel feverish?” he says, his voice pitched low, as if it’s stuck deep in his chest. “Must’ve caught something from -- drowning, almost.” He feels Felix smile under his fingers.

“Maybe,” Felix says. His arms fall away from the steering wheel. They sit in silence for a long, long time.

 

~

 

“You’re still here,” Bond says. “I thought you left yesterday.”

Felix is smoking a cigar outside the SIS building, the cloud a heavy halo around his face. He exhales, and Bond can practically taste smoke on his tongue. “Yes.”

“The CIA told you to stay longer.”

“No.”

Bond doesn’t know how to reply to this, besides with a crook of his eyebrow. He stands there, waiting for the explanation.

“I quit,” Felix says. “Thought I’d say something about being relegated to an errand boy.”

“You quit,” Bond repeats. And over the phone, too, probably, he thinks, and for some reason he finds it dreadfully hilarious.

“Yeah,” Felix says with shaky half-laughter. He coughs around his cigar. “Jesus, James. I’ve these damned limbs; they can’t trust me with any real missions any more. So it’s desk work. Making nice with other agencies. I don’t.” Felix stops. “Can’t put up with this shit,” he says eventually, flicking his cigar onto the pavement.

His eyes, Bond notices, are watering from the smoke, almost red.

Bond closes his own eyes for a second in momentary silence; he opens them, and nods. “All right. What are you going to do?”

Felix crushes the cigar under his foot. (The one that’s real.) “A detective. Private. Freelance. Something like that.” He doesn’t ask Bond to come along with him.

“Good luck,” Bond says.

“Thanks.”

“Let’s go drinking again,” Bond says, and forces a semblance of a smile on his face. “I know a good pub. Better than the one we were in that other night.” He shifts an arm around Felix’s shoulders briefly, brings their bodies close, and then Felix laughs when Bond steals one of his cigars. Felix lights it for him, holds it up to Bond’s mouth. Bond thinks that his hands feel cool.


End file.
